Music From Another Room
by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace
Summary: "She's a deaf girl shouting and he's a blind boy bleeding. Separately, they're something less than whole but more than broken. Together, they're a force to be reckoned with, a disaster waiting to happen." É/E Modern AU where Éponine is a deaf photographer and Enjolras is a blind pianist. Somehow they manage to fall in love. For sassymontparnassy, who is a damn fine classy lady.
1. First Sight

**Author's Note: Welcome to _Music From Another Room_, an É/E Modern AU for sassymontpasrnassy, who is a damn fine classy lady. **

**If I have portrayed any of the disabilities here in an insensitive or inaccurate manner, please tell me and I will do my best to correct it. I have limited knowledge of either deafness or blindness, though some of the things I describe I did take from stories told to my class by our awesome P.E. teacher, who had moderately severe hearing loss.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter One: First Sight**

* * *

They meet by accident, a full-on collision that leaves them both sprawled on the sidewalk, papers flying and camera parts smashed on concrete.

"What the fucking fuck!" Éponine screams. She's only got two volume settings nowadays, obnoxiously loud or silent as the grave, and obviously the former is her default. (So what if she can't hear the world anymore? That's not going to stop her from making sure they hear her.) "You fucking asshole, watch where you're going, are you fucking bli—"

She cuts off in mid-sentence as she takes the guy in—curly blond hair, gorgeous face that's currently frowning, and a fuck-me-now body clothed to perfection in a crisp, tailored suit.

It's the white cane that landed a few feet away from his legs that really shuts her up, though.

"Oh, shit, you _are _blind," she says.

Unexpectedly, the man laughs, his previous disgruntled expression evaporating as his blue eyes crinkle and his mouth opens to show off blinding white teeth. He turns his head in her direction and his lips perfectly form the words, "Yeah, I know. Sorry I didn't see you come out of nowhere to assault me."

She blushes, because to be honest the collision _had_ been her fault. It's autumn here in Connecticut, with all the spectacular scenery that entails. She'd been too busy snapping shots with her dusty old Polaroid camera to notice where she was walking, and lucky enough that people always moved out of her way—at least until he accidentally tripped her with his cane and sent her flying into him.

"Sorry," she mumbles, and she leans down to hand him his cane before moving to collect the papers that have fallen out of his bag. They're music sheets, covered in complicated-looking notes and patterns, phrases in Italian mingling with lines and symbols that hold no meaning for her (and never will—not now, anyways).

"Wow! Are you a musician?" she asks.

He nods. "Pianist, actually."

She takes a surreptitious glance at his hands: the long, elegant fingers, the neatly filed nails, the deft, quick movements of his wrists.

Oh, yes, she could definitely picture that.

"That's awesome," she says, but she must say it too loudly because his brows furrow and he blinks in surprise. "Uh, I mean, I'm not good with instruments at all, so that's really cool." She tries lowering her volume this time, making a conscious effort to keep it at the socially acceptable level.

He smiles again as he clamors to his feet, but his fingers catch on the pieces of her broken camera, and he frowns. "What the—oh, no, I'm so sorry, is this yours? Damn it, I'll pay for it—"

"No, no, it's okay. It's just an old Polaroid. I've got three more at home. If it had been one of my Nikons, that'd be a different story, though. Those babies are a couple grand a pop," she says a little teasingly.

He raises his brows in faint surprise. "You're a photographer?"

She blushes and is grateful for the fact that he can't see her face—she's probably red as a tomato right now and embarrassed-looking as hell. "Yeah. I was taking a few candid shots, so that's why I didn't see you when—well—you know."

She curses internally at how awkward she sounds, but how often does she meet a cute guy who doesn't ask about the hearing aids or stare oddly at her scars?

"Must be interesting," he replies. "I have a friend who's an artist—painter actually. He's doing a gallery show next week in New York. It's opening on Thursday and I've been press-ganged into attending."

"Really?" Huh. She'd ask Cosette if she knew of any promising galleries. Maybe she could drop by and—

_Uh-oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. __You are not stalking blind boy_, she said firmly to herself. _What the hell are you even thinking? A blind pianist with a deaf photographer? What the hell would you even have to talk about?_

She can't see what he says next because he turns his face away, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. When he turns back to her, a questioning tilt to his head, she nods automatically and says, "Sure. That sounds great."

("Sounds great." Ha. See how good she is at faking normalcy? Yeah, she's a pro.)

He grins again, even wider this time. "Good. I'm sure he'd be glad to have another artist take a look at his work. He's forever claiming that we just can't understand it and we're awful friends." He extends a hand in her general direction, a few degrees off but incredibly endearing. "I'm Enjolras, by the way."

"Éponine," she says, taking it in hers.

"Éponine." His lips shape the syllables of her name so sensuously, and God, she wishes she could still hear. She bets his voice sounds wonderful. "So, can I have your number to text you the address of the gallery?"

"Wait, what?" She gapes at him. Is he asking her out? When did cute guys randomly asking her out suddenly become a thing?

Now it's his turn to blush. "I promise I won't harass you or anything. I just—after breaking your camera, sharing my extra ticket with you is the least I could do. His artwork is very good, I swear—not that I've seen it, but my friends say—" He lets out a frustrated sigh, and _oh_, she knows how that feels, doors closing in your face and people doubting your words because you happen to be a little less than normal.

"Seven-oh-one, four-two-two-nine," she says.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My number. It's seven-oh-one, four-two-two-nine. Text me the address, though, because I never answer the phone." She takes a deep breath to brace herself before coming clean. "I'm deaf, so it doesn't really work for me—talking without lips to read and all."

He startles in surprise. "You're deaf? As in profound deafness or severe or…?" Then he immediately winces. "No, that's rude, I apologize."

She relaxes a little. Most people never even know that there are different kinds of deafness—hell, she didn't before the accident. And more people are too busy actually _being_ rude to stop and consider that they might be hurting her feelings. "I'm profoundly deaf, with sensorineural hearing loss," she explains.

He nods and seems to actually know what that means. "Good to know." Then he frowns. "Oh, wait, am I actually facing the right direction? Do you need me to do something or—"

"Nah. Just keep on talking normally and don't turn away from me. I can read your lips fine."

He reaches up to touch those lips, full and curved and so luscious that she just wants to take a bite out of them. "Hmm. Useful skill."

"It is," she responds. "So I'll see you on Thursday?"

He smiles. "I'll see you on Thursday."

She walks away with a spring in her step and turns around half a block down to see him standing where she left him, still as a marble statue, that gorgeous face turned in her direction. Her fingers itch to for a camera to preserve the sight forever, but she's got only got a broken Polaroid at the moment, so she closes her eyes and commits him to memory instead.

* * *

**…**

**…**

**…**

* * *

Later, years later, she'll have pictures and pictures of him plastered all over the walls, but it's still that first last sight of him she sees imprinted on her closed eyelids whenever she thinks of him.

* * *

**Endnote: Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed. Please review. :)**


	2. Laughter That Lingers

**Author Note: Welcome to the second chapter of_ Music From Another Room_! Thank you for reading & we hope you enjoy. :)**

******Also, if I have portrayed any of the disabilities here in an insensitive or inaccurate manner, please tell me and I will do my best to correct it.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Laughter That Lingers**

* * *

He's intensely nervous at the moment. After all, asking out random strangers isn't usually his thing—not that he was asking her out, this isn't a date, he just wanted to make up for breaking her camera—

"Enjolras? Do you mind not running your hands through your hair like that and looking all sexy and brooding? It's distracting for the patrons and I kinda want them to pay attention to my paintings and not your face. Just so you know."

He turns in the direction of Grantaire's amused voice. "I am_ not_ brooding."

"Oh, man, trust the guy with the eyes—you definitely are."

Enjolras frowns as Bahorel's booming laugh breaks out.

"Oooh, there we go," Courfeyrac says, chuckling as well. "Ladies, eat your hearts out, avenging angel Enjolras is in the house."

Enjolras frowns harder, mouth turning down and brows furrowing.

"Enjolras, I just told you stop!" Grantaire says in between gasping snorts. "They'll never pay attention to my paintings now!"

"It's okay, Grantaire. At least Enjolras is good for attracting more visitors to your next show. The numbers always go up when he's around, especially when you have him stand next to the portraits you do of him," Joly says cheerfully, ever the optimist.

"I don't even understand why," Enjolras mutters. "Who cares about my face? It's got a nose and a mouth and a chin and two eyes just like anyone else's. And it's actually a little worse off since the eyes don't work."

"No," Jehan says firmly. "You have the face of a god. Your nose is aquiline, your mouth is full and soft, your jaw looks as if it was chiseled from marble, and don't even get me started on your eyes. They're the palest, most mysterious blue I've ever come across."

"Again, I don't understand how any of this would possibly make a difference. People's standards of attractiveness make no sense," Enjolras replies peevishly.

"Oh, like yours make any more sense? How long has it been since you've gone on a date?" Courfeyrac challenges.

Enjolras can feel himself flush, but before he can reply, Combeferre comes up to the group.

"Sorry, Enjolras, but what was your guest's name? We need to know so the security guards can just wave her in when she gets here."

"Wait, Enjolras has a guest coming?" Bossuet says incredulously. "And it's a she? Aw, man! My week started tomorrow!"

"Pay up!" Bahorel crows.

"Shit," Courfeyrac says. "Of course you'd get a girl just after my week ended."

Enjolras frowns harder. "You've been taking bets on when I would begin dating again?"

Feiully claps him on the shoulder. "It's harmless, Enjolras. Just a bit of fun. It could've been worse; R and Courf wanted to set you up on blind dates."

"Blind dates with a damn fine-looking blind man!" Courfeyrac yells.

"See?" Feiully points out. "Could be worse."

"You're only saying that because you _won_," Bossuet complains.

"Shouldn't have bet against the house," Feiully says calmly.

"Hand the money back," Enjolras snaps. "It's not a date. She's just an acquaintance."

"Uh, but where did you get acquainted? Last time I checked, we were the only people you hung around. Well, us and your baby grand piano, who I still say shouldn't count as a person," Courfeyrac says.

"Evangeline totally counts as a person!" Jehan says, affronted. "She is a beautiful piano!"

"Cool your jets, I never said she didn't, I just said she _shouldn't_. But back to more important matters—who's this girl, and if you aren't interested in getting into her pants, why did you invite her here?" Courfeyrac demands.

Enjolras clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. "I ran into her back home in Connecticut earlier this week—literally, as it turned out, and the fall broke her camera. So I felt I owed her something."

"Oooh, he wants to give her something," Bahorel teases, and Enjolras doesn't have to see to know that he's probably grinning widely.

"Stop that. I told you it isn't like that," he answers testily.

"Enjolras? Her name?" Combeferre prods before one of the others contributes..

"Oh, yes. Sorry about that, Ferre. It's Éponine," Enjolras says.

"Ooooh, Éponine," the peanut gallery echoes.

"I will _hurt_ you," Enjolras threatens. He faces Combeerre's general direction, ignoring the delighted calls and shouts of his other friends. "Obviously I can't describe what she looks like, but I do know that she's d—"

"Guys! Guys, she's here!" Marius interrupts, coming out of nowhere and apparently crashing into Bossuet, if the latter's grunt is any indication. His voice is bright with excitement and Enjolras automatically turns toward the sound in response. "She's here, oh my God, what do I do?"

"The MoMA docent you're stalking?" Grantaire asks.

"Yes! She's here with a friend, I think, and they just got inside and now they're hanging out by the refreshments table. What do I do? Does my hair look alright? Shoot, if I'd known she was going to be here I'd have worn something nicer," he laments.

"Wait, so you've got somebody here tonight, too?" Bossuet asks.

"Too? What do you mean?" Marius says, momentarily distracted from his line of thought.

"Enjolras invited a girl," Jehan explains.

"What, really? Wow, what's her name?"

"Éponine," Bahorel says gleefully.

"Cool! I'll keep an eye out for her, too. After I talk to the vision of loveliness, of course," Marius says seriously.

"What does she look like? As wingman extraordinaire, I can help you out," Courfeyrac says. "If her friend's cute, it won't even be any trouble."

"Really? Would you? You know I can get—oh, my God, there she is! And they're coming this way, oh, my God, they're walking over here, oh, my God, Courf, what do I do?"

"First, calm down. You are a promising young lawyer who can speak five languages. You can manage to sound intelligent in at least one," Courfeyrac says. "Second, just breathe, okay?"

"Yes, yes, I can do that," Marius says. "Okay. Breathe. I can breathe. Wait, no. No, I can't, what am I saying, look at her! I can't breathe, she's too beautiful—why the hell do I have to be the socially awkward wreck? Can't it be Enjolras instead? He doesn't care what people think about him," Marius says, and Enjolras can hear him rubbing the back of his neck anxiously.

"I think it's because you do care that you get like this, Marius," Combeferre says kindly.

"Wait, is the girl you like the blonde in the blue dress? Or the girl with dark hair who's rocking the aviator goggles and leather pants?" Grantaire queries.

"The first one."

"Would you look at that—they're heading right in this direction. And they're doing the heads-close-together, appraising eye-thing. Huh. You could be in luck, my friend," Bahorel observes.

"Everybody, shhh! Act like normal human beings, stand up straight, and nobody say anything weird for the next fifteen minutes. We're gonna help our boy get laid," Grantaire says mischievously.

"Since when are we not normal human beings?" Bossuet demands.

"Since the minute our clique formed at Juilliard. And things just got worse when we picked up a pre-law student from Columbia who can teach anyone the true meaning of secondhand embarrassment with five minutes of meeting him," Jehan explains.

"Oh, my God, she's fifteen feet away!"

"Marius, you're cutting off circulation in my arm," Joly says.

"Sorry! Sorry! I—hi! Hi! I'm Marius," Marius says. "I saw you earlier by the drinks and I was going to say hello, but I got nervous, and this might sound weird, but your dress is really pretty and so are you and—oh, your friend's pretty, too, I didn't mean to ignore you, hi, I'm Marius, it's nice to meet you."

Enjolras hears the faint thwack sound that surely means Combeferre has just violently covered his face with his hand, accompanied by the light, trilling giggles and lower-pitched, husky laughter of two women.

"It's nice to meet you, too," says the voice that Enjolras hasn't been able to get out of his mind for days. She sounds perfectly amused and he has to fight down the urge to lift his hand and feel if her smile is curving her mouth, if her lips are tilting up at the corners the way her voice does when she asks a question. "I'm known in these parts as Jondrette, but you can call me—"

"Jondrette? As in É. Jondrette? As in the photographer? As in the woman whose work I'm half in love with and certainly in lust with?" Grantaire interrupts.

"Maybe," she cheekily responds.

"Holy fuck, you're Jondrette?! Get out of the way, Marius, I want to see her," Courfeyrac says.

"Ow! What the hell, you just stepped on my toe, Courf!" Bossuet shouts.

"Guys, calm down, we're at a gallery show. Think of Grantaire!" Joly says.

"My photographic idol is standing right there, calm is not in my vocabulary at the moment!" Courfeyrac yells.

"I'm sorry about my friends," Marius apologizes anxiously. "I swear they're not usually like this excitable."

"Holy shit, _Marius_ is apologizing on our behalf for being excitable. Is the world ending?" Bahorel butts in.

She laughs again and Enjolras lets the loud and joyful sound wash over him. He wants to walk over to where she's standing, say hello, say anything to get her to talk to him, but it would probably not make a good impression if he were to smack Grantaire with his cane to get him to move.

"I hope it's not ending," she says. "I've still got one or two things I want to do. Anyway, it's nice to meet you all. This is my friend, Cosette, and—"

"Cosette! What a beautiful name!"

"_Marius_."

"What? It's true!"

"—and you can call me Éponine," she finishes.

A beat of shocked silence. Enjolras closes his eyes in mild mortification. And then—

"Éponine?!" his friends shout in unison.

Enjolras can practically feel the heated glares being shot in his direction.

"You know Éponine Jondrette and you never told us?" Courfeyrac says accusingly.

"I don't know her; I just met her this week," he says, exasperated.

"Wait, oh my God, you broke her camera!" Courfeyrac says. "How could you? We are no longer friends. I don't know you. I never want to see you again."

Cosette giggles again. "Oh, no, it was just an old Polaroid. She has a million more back at her studio—I wouldn't worry about it at all. Right, Éponine?"

Enjolras hears the rustling of cloth, then Éponine exclaims, "Cosette! I said it wasn't like that!"

"Oh, wow, wait, what was that you did with your hands just now? Was that sign language? Why would you—holy cow, you're deaf!"

"_Marius_," Enjolras hisses, horrified.

"Yes, yes, I am," Éponine replies, and thankfully she sounds amused rather than insulted.

"But—but if you're deaf and Enjolras is blind, then isn't dating difficult? How do you communicate? Actually, how are you communicating now?" Marius asks.

"Oh, for the love of God, Marius, stop," Combeferre says before Enjolras gets a chance to. "This is a repeat of everything you did wrong when you first met Enjolras."

"Oh. Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to be insulting," Marius says. "I—you know what, I'll just shut up now."

"It's okay, I don't mind. It's kind of refreshing actually," Éponine says, a smile in her voice. "And I read lips; it's my main way of understanding people. Cosette just likes to tease me in sign language."

"I said she was right about Enjolras being very handsome, and that I could see why she was so eager to meet him again, if you want to know," Cosette explains.

"Cosette!" Éponine says, her voice mortified.

Enjolras can feel his face flush in a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. She thought he was handsome? Looks meant nothing to him, of course, but if she liked his, that was good, right?

"I'm sorry," Éponine says. "Please ignore her. I meant that in a purely aesthetic manner, as in I would love to photograph you—"

"Oh, man, right?" Courfeyrac says. "Grantaire and Jehan and Feiully and I have all used him as a model at one point or another. He's great at it. You want him to do it in the nude?"

Éponine laughs. "No, no, that's fine, no need—"

"I would do it," Enjolras says automatically.

"Pose for me nude?" Éponine says, voice shocked and—dare he say a touch eager?

His cheeks and the tips of his ears heat even further. "Uh, well, if you really wanted—"

"No, no, no, that's fine. You can keep your clothes on. Just—ah, you know what, I was going to do a shoot in Central Park next week. Are you free?"

"Yes," Grantaire says, draping his arm around Enjolras's shoulders. "He most definitely is. And the week after that. And the one after that. Anytime you need him, just call us and we can pimp him out to you."

"It's for art," Bahorel says in his best faux-solemn tone.

"Now, uh, how about we leave you two alone so you can…discuss details?" Courfeyrac says suggestively.

"Schedule an assignation," Joly says.

"Hammer out the kinks," Jehan contributes.

That's it. Enjolras reaches out and smacks the nearest person with his cane.

"Ow!" Bossuet says. "I didn't say anything!"

"Get lost," Enjolras orders all of them.

"Aye, aye, fearless leader," Grantaire says. "Come on, people, help me to convince people to buy my art."

His friends depart along with Cosette, leaving the two of them alone to peruse the gallery together.

Her voice is a little louder than is strictly polite, her words slurring slightly now and then, but it is low-pitched and husky and filled with life, and he decides he's never heard anything more beautiful. Their conversation is full of teasing exchanges and witty barbs; they talk as if they've known each other for years. He can't remember the last time he enjoyed himself so much, and not even the crick he gets in his neck from having to constantly face her direction so she can read his lips dampens his mood.

It's worth it. She's worth it.

At the end of the night, Enjolras feels a hand reach out to touch his shoulder, soft lips brush against his cheek, and a warm voice whisper right in his ear, "Thank you for this."

"No," he says. "Thank _you_."

And he takes the hand touching his arm and raises it to his lips, not even caring when his friends whoop and holler his name, because she's laughing and the music of it is all he can hear.

* * *

**…**

**…**

**…**

* * *

Later, years later, after she's become a million songs hummed under his breath and a thousand words whispered into the night, when the sound of her voice is all but engraved onto his soul in permanent, lingering echoes—it's still that laughter that haunts him in the silence of her absence.

* * *

**Endnote: Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed. Please review. :)**


	3. Captivated

**Author Note: Welcome to the third chapter of_ Music From Another Room_! Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoy. :)**

**If I have portrayed any of the disabilities here in an insensitive or inaccurate manner, please tell me and I will do my best to correct it.**

**In addition, I introduce a Seeing Eye dog in this chapter; please remember if you ever encounter one that they are in fact working dogs, and permission is necessary before petting is allowed (this is true for any dog, but _especially_Seeing Eye or guide dogs).**

**Also, I have a very limited understanding of the geography of New York City, so please inform me if any of the (admittedly few) descriptions are unrealistic. _Please._**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Captivated**

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit," she says, staring at her bed, which currently looks like her closet vomited all her clothes on it, an eye-scream of colors and fabrics and styles. She runs and impatient hand through her hair and grabs a few things, putting them on while she curses under her breath.

For God's sake, he's blind; he's not going to care what she wears.

Except, well, _she_ cares what she wears.

And that's what really scares her—this isn't a date, he isn't her boyfriend, and she doesn't want him to be. She doesn't do boyfriends, she doesn't do commitments, and this man had "committed" and "serious" and "long-term" written all over him in solid, bold type.

Why should she even care about looking good enough to make him want her?

(But she does, oh, she does, so she puts on the tight cashmere sweater, the knee-high smooth, suede boots with corrugated zippers, the fine linen shorts—color doesn't matter, but the _texture_.

She wants him to put his hands on her and_ feel_ the way she's dressed for him.)

She glances at the clock—shit, if she doesn't get going soon, she's going to be late.

Éponine hurriedly finishes dressing, then grabs her casual photo shoot bag (the one with her third-favorite digital Nikon camera and a few extra lenses) and heads out the door.

* * *

Central Park is bustling as usual when she gets there, full of people enjoying one of the increasingly rare sunny days as the last lingering bits of summer finally fade into crisp, clear autumn.

She sees him sitting on a bench near Gapstow Bridge, just as they agreed, apparently completely unconcerned by the world around him, a book open in his lap and one of his hands tracing the seemingly blank pages. The sun glints off his golden hair and long, delicate lashes, the color matching the coat of the calm, obedient dog who rests beside him, its harness resting in his other hand.

Éponine stops and tilts her head at the sight, automatically taking out her camera and snapping a quick shot of the two.

The dog turns its head in her direction and nudges Enjolras's knee as she approaches.

"Who's this?" she asks.

He immediately turns his face in the direction of her voice and smiles, warm and welcoming, and the sight of it stirs heat in her belly, which she resolutely ignores. She's not here for that—not yet anyway.

"Hello." His lips form the greeting effortlessly. "I hope you don't mind, but this is Frances, my Seeing Eye dog. She helps me get around."

"Oh, get around, huh? I can believe that. I bet all the ladies love such a pretty girl," Éponine says teasingly, pleased at the blush that rises so easily to his cheeks.

"No, actually, she's just a working dog—well, not _just_ a working dog, she's a loyal companion, too, but right now she's—I mean, I don't usually use her to get attention like that," Enjolras eventually manages to say, his hand coming up to rake through his curls nervously.

Éponine is struck by the sudden urge to kiss him.

_Calm down_, she tells herself. _This is a photoshoot. There'll be time for that later, if he wants._

And she's pretty certain he wants her, if his attentive behavior earlier this week at Grantaire's art show was any indication.

To distract herself, she crouches in front of the dog. "May I pet her?" she asks, placing her camera on the bench beside him.

He gives her another smile, a small, crooked one this time. "I don't encourage people touching her while she's working, but friends are an exception. Go ahead," he says.

She reaches out a hand and runs it over smooth, golden fur. "Hey, there, pretty girl," she croons. "My name's Éponine. It's nice to meet you. You mind being photographed today? Gorgeous girl like you, I bet everybody's offering to take your picture. What kind of breed are you, huh? Golden retriever? Everybody loves a golden retriever."

"Golden and lab mix, actually," Enjolras says, closing his book. "And would you prefer to take pictures just of Frances? She's sat for portraits for Grantaire and Bahorel."

"Nah, I want the two of you together," Éponine replies, grabbing her camera and standing back up. "This was just gonna be a casual thing, you know? Candid shots, maybe a few posed if the passerby agreed, some nature shots, too, if the weather cooperated. Which it is at the moment."

Enjolras tilts his head back and closes his eyes, basking in the sun a little. "Mmhm. It feels nice today."

She can't help herself; she takes the shot of him sitting there, nearly glowing with contentment and radiating a steady sort of peace. It's not an emotion she would have associated with him, not after their little get-together last week, where he practically burned with passion and fire, but here he sits, that fire carefully contained.

She wants to take it for her own, hold it close and hoard it. She's a greedy photographer, selfish in her art, and her camera is her way of owning everything she sees, making every moment and every image and every person belong to her and her alone. Portraits are her acknowledged specialty, and critics frequently bring up her ability to perfectly capture the raw energy and soul of the people she immortalizes in film.

And Enjolras has so much energy and soul, it's practically bursting out of him—her fingers itch and yearn and burn to capture it, capture _him_, her soul meeting his through the lens.

So that's what they do for most of the afternoon—he strides through the park, walking past trees, on grass, by ponds, down twisted pathways, Frances faithfully at his side.

And she follows behind him, walks backward in front of him, steps in time beside him, camera snapping, snapping, snapping, her eye taking him, all of him in—golden hair, unfocused eyes, furrowed brow, pianist's hands, long, lean body in graceful motion, dressed in muted gray and blue—taking him and keeping him, just as he is, right this second, right this moment, forever. Frozen in perfect, beautiful pictures.

(Éponine would never admit it, but she falls a little in love with each and every person she photographs. Enjolras is no different.

(Except he is, because she falls harder for him than anyone else.))

Anyway, everything is going fine, completely great, actually, when the weather gods decide to curse her and let loose a sudden downpour of rain.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" she yells at the sky as she hastily shoves her camera back into the thankfully water-proof bag. "One day! I just wanted one day! Was that too much to ask for, Manhattan, you awful bitch?"

Enjolras laughs, seemingly unfazed, and damn it, she really should have brought her waterproof camera—God, just look at him: curly hair sticking to his forehead, raindrops making their way down his tanned skin, every inch of him pure, gorgeous sex appeal. "Well, I guess we'll have to call it a day. Come on, I'll call you a cab."

They make their way out of Central Park, Frances leading them efficiently onto the streets, and Éponine uses her glare of doom and an ear-piercing whistle to rustle up a cab for the both of them.

"Jesus," she says, once they're inside the conveyance. "I'm soaked to the bone. Thank God my camera's alright, though." She leans back onto the seats and smiles at him.

He smiles back, even though he can't possibly see her. Must be a coincidence, then. "Good. I'm glad your work hasn't gone to waste."

"I dunno. It might've been nice a nice excuse to see you again."

He shifts, manner just a touch shy. "I—" He breaks off, suddenly looking towards the front of the cab. "Seventy-Sixth and Fifth, please," he says before she can reply with her own address.

She blinks. "Upper East Side?" _I should have guessed_, she thinks, the thought slightly bitter. _Rich kid, huh?_ "We could've walked."

He blushes again. "It's raining," he says. "I was worried for your camera. And besides, Frances—" he turns his face away, so she can't see what he said.

"What?" she asks, feeling a little stupid, a little out of her depth. With such fine clothes, such refined manners, she should've known he was wealthy. What's he doing, hanging out with a deaf photographer like her, an obvious starving artist type?

(Okay, she's not starving anymore, but she knows what it feels like—it's not a sensation she'll forget anytime soon.)

He whips his head immediately towards her. "I'm sorry," he says. "That was stupid of me; forgive me. I only said that Frances hates getting wet." He lays a comforting hand on his dog's head.

She blinks again. People rarely apologize so sincerely for failing to remember her condition, rarely accommodate her so readily. "No problem. Being wet when you're a dog is probably one of the most miserable and atrocious feelings out there, especially since they can hardly escape their own smell."

He grins. "Yes, I imagine so—oh! I'm sorry, I forgot to ask where you live." The phrasing of the sentence is almost but not quite a question, the query contained moreso in the tilt of his head than in his words.

"SoHo," she answers anyway.

"SoHo," he repeats, smiling again. "I should have known. Courfeyrac and the others have been urging me to make the move for years. Here, we'll drop you off—"

"Aren't you going to invite me back to your place?" she interrupts, the decision sudden, abrupt, but altogether sure.

He swallows heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I…if you want to."

"I want to," she says.

He blushes again, tilting his head away, but she can still make out his lips forming the word, "Alright."

* * *

**…**

**…**

**…**

* * *

Later, years later, she'll remember how he looked, so shy and uncertain, so at odds with his usual confident, commanding demeanor, offering the choice of following him or leaving.

"If you want to," his lips said.

He always, always asked if she wanted to.

Silly boy. Of course she wanted to—no, _wants_ to be with him—her feelings won't change, even if the answer she gave him, years later, did—

_No. I don't want to._

She's still amazed he didn't hear the obvious lie in her voice. She should be glad, but lying alone in bed, surrounded by all the old, beautiful pictures of him taken that very first day, the day she really started falling in love with him, she can't bring herself to be so.

* * *

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